


to sleep, perchance to dream

by sm0kersmoker



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Death, Experimental, M/M, No Divine Pulse, One-Sided Attraction, Written in reverse, and that's why he must suffer, i love caspar with all my heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 08:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20150659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sm0kersmoker/pseuds/sm0kersmoker
Summary: To die, to sleep —To sleep – perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub,For in that sleep of death what dreams may comeWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil…/Caspar dies.





	to sleep, perchance to dream

**Author's Note:**

> wow my first FE3H fic and it's full of suffering
> 
> jokes, but i wanted to be experimental and try something new, as i realise i am always doing!(?)  
saw next to nothing for this rarepair and since I love caspar to bits and am very very fond of his napping bf (coughreadbest/boyfriend) here is something to add to the next-to-nothing on archive
> 
> work has not been beta'd cos i don't have a betareader. i apologize for any mistakes that come through to the publish

He falls, hard.

The sound is caught in the dirt: muffled, wet squelch of a muddy grassland that quiets death to soft thumps. It’s a strange feeling - Linhardt doesn’t even hear it at first, and _not hearing_ is what gets him to notice because for someone so loud, Caspar goes awfully quiet.

The mire makes it hard to run through. Not like he was running, though, sprinting through their pyrrhic victory as Byleth’s sword swings sings slick with the sound of blood, as Dorothea’s pace matches his own, Bernadetta’s piercing cry rings clear as an arrow shot with the screaming wind. He’s tripping over his feet, Ferdinand’s hand pulling him up, two steps more and then blue hair sticking out like a sore thumb in the dirt.

Someone speaks to his left, palms glowing, eyes wide and watery - telling signs of not-good-enough,- maybe _he_ isn’t good enough, _shocking, Linhardt isn’t good enough?_ He excels in Faith arts. He’s a genius.

“Caspar.” His throat is licked dry, hands bursting with white light, blood glinting almost reverently. “Caspar?” 

The white hurts. 

It’s a blinding color, Cethleann’s crest aiding the glow as his palms burn: they are cracked and dry, overused, exhausted. He finds the wound, he strips away the armor plate to pallid skin, fingers curling hair into trembling blue tufts slick with sweat. There’s a shard of a sword just below Caspar’s rib cage; his blue eyes are glassy-soft, looking to the sky, gazing. It is unfamiliar.

“Caspar,” the word is hard to swallow, slowly, fingers pressed against a bare stomach as white light seeps into his body; it _hurts_ how hot the Faith is between his fingers, blisters like a hand over the stove, branded. Someone tries to pull him back - Petra is screaming fury into a stray imperial knight, a flag rises in the mist that looks like theirs but feels so foreign to his eyes.

“_Caspar_,” Urgently, digging into skin that won’t breathe for him, light that doesn’t sing its magic, feet still and nestled between tall weeds and the faint smell of petrichor, his voice strains pathetically over a victory cry. “Caspar, _please_.” 

The Faith bleeds his fingertips dry like a dark art, crest aglow and sun-scorching, his head heavy and buried into a chest that won’t rise with the sun, forcing what remains of his power to tear through his system like bolts of lightning emptied to the ground.

Linhardt asks for a miracle, gasping into pale skin and blue hair, until the light sets the battlefield aflame with Faith, 

until it takes his breath away. 

/

War Master sounds funny on his tongue. Tastes like iron - never liked that taste, for obvious reasons, and it fills his mouth in the ruins of the monastery’s dining hall while chatter rises against the dimming day. 

“Of all names and classes.” Linhardt rolls his eyes again later, as they walk back between lamplights and cobblestone pathways to their dorms. Funny to think that they’re still _dorms_, as if they were still students and the world wasn’t steeped in absolute chaos on the tipping point of an authoritarian dictatorship. “War Master, _really_?” 

“Hey- I’ll have a little fun while I can!” Caspar’s voice sing-songs the rest of his words, nudging his shoulder affably. “I’m a Master of War now, Linhardt. Edelgard won’t stand a chance against these fists of fury.” 

There’s an edge to his voice - to be fair, it’s there for every single survivor. To think that Caspar’s tone could even waver at the mention of a fight - it might have been amusing once but now it stills the air and holds his breath, and Linhardt isn’t sure if he likes that feeling at all.

So, he says, “Well, of course. What kind War Master loses a war?” 

Caspar grins at that, the hint of worry vanishing. “Not this one.” 

Their fingers interlace. Touch is a precious thing now, when the acrid scent of death hangs low in the air and the sound of marching troops haunt frequent nightmares. It comforts Caspar too, the warmth; he had asked for it unabashedly one night at the monastery’s decrepit stable, all bold statements and cheerful words. Could have been anyone else, really, but asking a girl would be more than embarrassing - and well, Linhardt was never the type to mind, would he? They were friends, after all.

“I hate this feeling.” Linhardt says bitterly into the sky, forgetting for a moment that Caspar’s fingers tighten around his palm. An age ago he would have squeezed back - he’s bold enough for that type of thing, equally brazen in a different kind of way - except these hands were held for circumstance, and circumstance would be their only explanation. 

“Of what?” Caspar prompts gently, past two lamps that pull their shadows across the pavement, stretched far enough into the darkness to touch. 

“Oh-“ Linhardt bites into a lie, Caspar might _hate him_ for the lies but he’s too dense to see, “killing.” 

There’s more talk in the dark. Like the stillness of night slows time to hours of seconds, days of hours, the moon a handless clock in the sky that guides every step of their leisurely pace. Caspar‘s gotten better at conversation - maybe it’s the war’s toil on his body that quiets his usually favoured subjects but, guiltily, Linhardt enjoys the murmuring peace. There’s stupid banter about their dining hall meals, the professor’s unsettling youth, _Flayn_ too - oh, Linhardt’s ranting tangent flies past an hour on the clock to a dark morning and somehow Caspar stays to listen. When they laugh together, it is easier to pretend that his hand is enough, or that his voice doesn’t sting beside him, or that when Caspar - having reached his room - draws his hand out of Linhardt’s, his chest doesn’t ebb with hurt so unfairly painful that he almost strides away. Caspar’s fingers slide over his wrist, brings them both into a familiar, soul-crushing hug and Linhardt holds in a breath, heart stuttering, fingers careful at his back, nose buried into the crook of his neck so as to make the feeling unrecognisable. 

“Oh Linhardt,” Caspar sighs all melodramatic into his hair, broad hand patting his back roughly.“What would I do without you?” 

“Oh, Caspar,” Linhardt says back, emptying a hollow laugh into the night sky, “absolutely everything.”

/

They meet at that thieves den of a monastery, evening chill cloaking their bodies with cold mist, puffs of breath lingering between silent faces as someone’s war cry reverberates though the broken buildings once called home.

“Is that Caspar?” Bernadetta’s voice rises just above the clashing of fists, brows furrowed as she nocks an arrow to her bow. 

“If it isn’t him,” Linhardt’s lip curls, Reason flickering between open palms, “I don’t know who else it could possibly be.” 

“I’ve missed that cry,” Ferdinand’s voice trembles, fond, “so un-nobly noble.”

Soon enough, through clashing swords and falling voices, they find green hair and verdant eyes between the spine of a clattering sword singing harmony, glowing soft in the shadows as it whips bandits to shreds. As per usual, Byleth’s gaze falls on his students; then, suddenly alive with alacrity, he moves again and again and again until every last thief falls. 

“Welcome back, Professor.” Seteth smiles and, for just a moment, the world spins back into order.

It’s a strange sort of meeting - having outgrown their school uniforms the Black Eagles approach each other with a fumbling hesitation, shaking hands, laughing - Dorothea brims with joy, social awkwardness be damned, and pulls them together in cries and warm hands to cold faces. Somewhere in their greetings Seteth is dragged in despite the acquiescence dusting his cheeks, soon a slow smile at his face. 

Linhardt can meet Caspar’s eyes now. It’s a petty thing to think about, how broad his shoulders are in plated armor, height to (almost) match his, blue eyes defiant and mischievous. Five years has really been too long. 

“Linhardt!” Caspar’s beam is overpowering and he is swept away into a tight embrace that speaks of a longing louder than words ever could. “It’s been a while.”

“It really has. I nearly couldn’t recognize your face.” 

“Cus I’m almost as tall as you now, huh?” And when he leans a little closer, breaking into a crooked grin and tip-toeing to cover an inch more of night air, Linhardt’s drawl breaks into a stifled laugh. There’s no time for envy- no time for questions, like why Dorothea sticks so close to Caspar’s side, or why he’s gotten so tall, or how his eyes have grown darker and wiser with experience, face sharper but seemingly softer to touch. Caspar is no apparition - he’s here, standing strong against the tides of their losing battle, against the chaos of their new lives, still resolute, still stupid, still _alive_.

Warmth blooming into his chest, hand clutching the sewn leather sides of Caspar’s armor, Linhardt smiles back and feels like the sun. 

/

He has never been much of a dancer. 

Not that he’s ever wanted to be - long limbs were made for reaching shelves, resting heads on, and the ball demands not just a physical dexterity he doesn’t wish to put the work in for, but also a _dance partner_ to double the torment with. 

“Are you jealous that you couldn’t dance with a girl?” Caspar grins, hand at his waist like their lessons had taught him, fingers curled around his shoulder with just the lightest touch. “Actually, I take that back. Doesn’t sound like you at all.” 

“Stole the words right out of my mouth,” Linhardt rolls his eyes, sighing as they stride into more waltzing at the center of the room. “And learn to speak for yourself.” 

“Hey! Everyone I asked already had a date,” Caspar shrugs, his voice at the cusp of whining before he grips Linhardt’s wrist close and dark green hair twirls in a gentle hold. “or thought I was joking. I need to prove that I wasn’t.”

“And to prove your point, you’ve decided to sabotage my naptime,” Linhardt sniffs, voice wavering on a curious note - and he _is_ curious; curious of how careful Caspar’s hands are with their waltz, yet every step is taken in bold confidence Linhardt can only reciprocate through textbook moves. 

“Uh, yeah, because you _never_ do stuff like this?” At a chord change and trill of notes Caspar lets their bodies fall slowly, one hand at the small of his back, leg bent to accommodate their weight, cyan eyes hard with concentration as they gaze into Linhardt’s own. An easy smile graces his face. 

“At this rate, the path to the Library is going to end at your dorm room instead of the courtyard. You might be more unsociable than Bernadetta.”

“I’ll take the former as a compliment.” 

“Come _on_, Linhardt,” Caspar groans, lifting them back up again, swung into the next movement as his feet guide Linhardt’s body away from a couple. “Just dance with me, won’t you? Oh- I think someone’s looking our way.” 

“It’s- well, it’s hard.” Linhardt admits.

Hard to see, when in vertigo. The room is a dazzling display of lights and a grand hall that stretches a mile of golden floor. Music swells and falls to guide every movement of their waltz, bodies fluid and somehow in synchronised harmony. Of course, not every student is an acrobat - the three house leaders are the cynosures of all eyes - but Caspar takes Linhardt’s fumbling lack of grace and turns them into formidable competition, a strange pair amidst the upper elites of royalty, just barely matching their pace. 

“Don’t worry,” Caspar grins, taking a glance at Linhardt’s hesitation. “I’ve got you covered.” 

He never thought of Caspar as elegant. Far from it - and clearly, other students think the same, what with the way he swings his axe and likes to empty his blaring voice into the sky. There’s a strange thoughtfulness to how he moves his body, how he clasps Linhardt’s fingers, curved smile of amusement more fond than teasing. There are other things too, out of dance - a shared brutal honesty, a long history of pushing and pulling, stupid talk made amusing by Caspar’s occasional solemnity when he can’t get the subtleties of Linhardt’s humor. Suddenly it doesn’t feel like enough - words caught at the edge of his throat, clawing at his tongue, to reach blue eyes that look away from cyan ones. Strangely pathetic in this dance, his hands turn clammy from thinking and Caspar’s grip tightens to compensate without so much as a word between them. It’s always been like that - the push and pull for each other, playing at their strengths, baring weaknesses in silly conversation that stretches deep into childhood history, a pair of intertwined experiences, the intimacy of their bond strengthened by polarised opinions. Linhardt’s tongue is heavy in his mouth, heart tight at the thought of them, drawing in a sharp breath as Caspar pulls him closer - winks past his field of vision to the sound of awed cooing. When they stumble, just slightly, it is a mistake and not a rejection, a quick glance at Linhardt’s green ribbons and pale skin filled with concern. 

They have always been good friends.

Under the glimmer of chandeliers where they will fall again, slowly, Caspar’s hand to his back and their faces too close to be familiar, Linhardt stops for a moment to think, clear as day, that it is simple.

_I‘m in love with you._

/

He carries himself with confidence, Caspar, a sort of desperate confidence hard to see through unless one does enough pokingand prodding to make it past a sturdy wall of solid, straightforward spirit and onto the other side. Linhardt knows he’s not well-deep in turmoiling emotions - he’s not the type - but everyone has issues and Caspar’s Crest-related frustrations are easy to understand, if not empathise with.

“I won’t get the inheritance.” Caspar’s foot makes contact with a bucket and it’s sent flying into the garden - they’ve perused the Hevring household long enough for personal problems to be brought up in conversation, Caspar having exhausted most of his energy on trying (and failing) to convince Linhardt to a third duel.“Probably won’t ascend to anything either, not while I’m a second son.”

“No you won’t,” Linhardt agrees with a yawn. He makes himself comfortable at a garden chair beneath the shade, Caspar pacing around on the patio projecting his anger into the sky. “Better to just give up on the thought instead of waste your time, to be honest.” 

“You’re awful.” Caspar shoots him a look, hurt plainly obvious across his face as he digs his nails deep into the heels of his palms. “I mean, I can’t just sit around all hopeless.”

“_Actually_,-” Linhardt starts, eyes sparkling from post-nap energy, before Caspar’s look turns sour and he sighs, “oh, fine. I suppose you’ll never understand the benefits of sleeping in.”

“I rise with the sun.” Caspar says resolutely.

Eventually, Linhardt suggests the Officer’s Academy - _make your own greatness_, or whatever heroic saying it was that he could use to quell the frustration in Caspar’s heart. An unhappy Caspar was no good - something about those two words in a phrase felt like the world’s issue, a nationwide problem, Caspar _unhappy_. Anger was typical of him, sometimes even amusing; sadness, just unnervingly not. 

Maybe the boy was too pent up in his own frustration to think about the Academy as an alternative option, but at the mention of next year’s applicants and curriculum an old spark re-emerges in his eyes and Linhardt is almost fond. 

_Almost_, because Caspar’s exuberance has him grabbed by the wrist and swung forward in a soul-crushing hug, eyes glittering appreciation, mouth stretched into a comfortably familiar grin as if Linhardt had given him everything; everything in the whole, entire world.

/

They meet in the year 1169. 

It’s a meeting arranged by both nobles - a partial attempt at getting the young Hevring heir out of the house and the energetic little Bergliez to, for once in his little life, slow down and do some proper studying. Of course, they’re only _six_, but to be a noble is to start young, rise above the rest and lead the ever growing, ever restless Fódlan into a better future. Which means proper relations need to start early and well, and all sorts good. 

It happens in a courtyard - there's a wooden patio that will later be half of their training grounds, chairs that will later be overused and constantly replaced. Linhardt busies himself with notebook scrawling, crooked drawings of his own crest smudged by pudgy fingertips constantly inspecting the strokes and curves of his heritage. The tree that shades his blue eyes is one that will eventually suffer the brunt of most of Caspar’s blows and Linhardt’s Reason, blood smeared against the bark that will fade with time and Faith, splintered wood that the boys will carry unknowingly around the house until Caspar will complain about the blisters and Linhardt will sigh before drawing the pain from his wounds so they can be foolishly hurt again. 

“Woah! Are you _Linnhart_?”

Caspar’s eyes do not yet gleam with battle; nor are they wisened by war. He’s got the softer features of a Count’s son but there are sparks of what will come in his actions - the blaring voice, the rough hands, the spiky hair so shockingly blue it couldn’t possibly be disguised. It will take some time before their hands grow accustomed to each other- take some time for Linhardt’s heart to grow fond, and then strange, and then weak. It will take some time before their bodies bleed, their legs soaked in red death, faces thinned with age. It will take longer than forever, and also no time at all.

Linhardt looks at him - not yet wisened by the years, not yet strengthened by their bond, not yet hanging by threads thrumming with  love - and says, so _easily_,

“Hello.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank u very much for reading. kudos make me happy :)


End file.
